


Bargain Bin Fic

by shadowen



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/M, Fic Graveyard, M/M, Multi, ororoverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:56:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Odds and ends from unfinished stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trigger

**Author's Note:**

> These are bits and pieces from various stories that I've started but will likely never finish. I'm sharing them in an attempt to clear out my writing files and because there's some good stuff in here that I don't want to leave sitting in my closet forever.
> 
> If you see something that strikes your interest and want to run with it, do so with my blessing, just be sure to give me a heads-up and appropriate credit.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Clint are captured by the Scary Bad Guys of the week and held to ransom. At least, Steve is held to ransom. Believing Clint himself to be of less value than whatever information they can extract in the meantime, the Bad Guys torture Clint in an effort to get SHIELD secrets out of Steve. There are lots of conversations about relative worth, and it's possible that the bad guys have a device that can bring people back from the dead.
> 
> This thing started nice and then got real dark real fast. In the end, though, they get rescued, and it's either Steve/Clint or Phil/Clint. I never could decide.

Steve never has trouble finding a decent chess partner. With the very notable exception of Thor, all the other Avengers play, and he can usually drag someone away long enough to give him a game.

Bruce does it mostly out of courtesy. He doesn’t like to play, and he’s not very good, a fact he willingly acknowledges with a smile and a shrug. Tony will only play speed games, which is reasonable since two minutes is generally the limit of Tony’s attention span. Natasha runs aggressive strategies, but she has a limited arsenal. Steve learns to beat them, and she starts agreeing to games only when she has a new tactic to try. With Coulson, Steve never knows what kind of game he’s going to get, and they wind up evenly matched.

The only opponent he can never beat is Clint, and the shock this inspires from the rest of the team makes Steve a little offended on Clint’s behalf.

“You know what’s better than being smart?” Clint tells him, grinning. “Being smarter than everyone thinks you are.”

The first time they play, Clint goes on the defensive, and Steve chases him all around the board until his pieces are too spread out to maintain a line. He doesn’t see the trap until his queen is caught in it, and half his players are long gone. Checkmate comes three moves later.

The second time, Clint hardly moves at all, just draws out Steve’s pieces and picks them off one at a time. Steve gives him a run for his money, but he never gets an opening. He’s absolutely certain that check is going to come from the king’s rook, right until a knight comes sweeping in from the opposite side.

The third time, Steve decimates Clint’s board, and Clint, with three pawns, a bishop, and no queen, still manages to trap Steve’s king in a corner.

“Don’t feel bad, Cap. I’ve spent a lotta time in blinds with nothing else to do.”

Which is how they wind up playing over the comms on a mission. They’re waiting, watching what may or may not be an A.I.M. storehouse, and Tony is baiting Coulson out of boredom. In the rare moments of quiet, Steve and Clint trade moves. Tony teases them, at first, calling them nerds, which Natasha quickly points out is the single most hypocritical thing he has ever said.

After the opening gambits, though, he starts offering commentary, mostly egging Steve on. When Clint backtracks a bishop, Tony scoffs. “ _C’mon, Barton. If you keep playing like that, this game’s gonna take weeks_.”

And that’s when Steve gets it. Clint’s playing a long game. He’s not thinking about his next move or his next ten moves. He’s thinking about his next game. Hell, if his track record is any indicator, Steve would bet Clint’s already thinking four games down the line.

The realization hits Steve so suddenly that he laughs out loud, and Tony says, “ _What’s so funny? You’re getting your ass handed to you!_ ”

Faintly, he hears Clint chuckle. It’s a familiar sound, the one he makes when he’s got a target in his scope and they’ve just done something stupid, and Steve has a sneaking suspicion that Clint knows he’s just caught on.

It’s checkmate in six, and Tony spends the next several minutes deriding Steve for just giving up and explaining in detail exactly what he did wrong. 

“ _Hey, ‘Tasha_ ,” Clint says, suddenly. “ _What’s the difference between Iron Man and a can of soup?_ ”

“ _Only one of them can be used effectively as a defensive weapon_ ,” Natasha replies. “ _You can throw a can of soup_.”

“ _Oh, you guys are hilarious_ ,” Tony grumbles, but the game has already moved on.

“ _Hey, Coulson._ ”

“ _No thank you, Agent Romanov. I refuse to get involved in this._ ”

“ _Why do archers make bad artists?_ ”

Surprisingly, it’s Bruce who answers, “ _Because they can’t draw a straight line_.” Over Clint’s cackling, he adds, “ _You do realize that’s the most esoteric joke ever told, right?_ ”

“ _What does that even mean?_ ” Tony asks. “ _Did Barton just get insulted? Should I be happy?_ ”

Nobody pays him any attention, and Bruce seems to realize that it’s his turn. “ _Oh! Um, so what do you.... Tony, what do you call a convoluted explanation of string theory? _”__

__Not missing a beat, Tony shoots back, “Kinky.”_ _

__The comms are all static with the sounds of breathless, barely controlled laughter. Even Coulson, who tells them to stay focused and keep the lines clear, sounds like he’s suppressing a snicker._ _

__The game goes on for a while, until everyone’s had a turn and none of them can think of anymore jokes. Both Steve and Coulson agree that the stakeout is a bust and that it’s time to call it and go home._ _

__“Alright, kids,” Steve says. “Let’s bring it in. Dinner’s on To-”_ _

__“ _Hold up._ ”_ _

__There’s something in the way Clint’s voice changes when he’s got eyes on a mark that always reminds Steve with a jolt that his favorite chess partner is also a highly skilled assassin and one of the most dangerous men on the planet._ _

__“You see something?”_ _

__“ _Activity out back. Couple of guys with small arms, and.... Shit._ ”_ _

__“ _What is it?_ ” Coulson doesn’t sound worried, but Coulson never sounds worried._ _

__“ _Intel was good,_ ” Clint says. “ _A.I.M.’s here, and it looks like they’re making a hand-off._ ”_ _

__“ _Any sign of the tech?_ ” Which is, of course, Tony’s primary concern._ _

__“ _I’m seeing some suspiciously nondescript black bags, but nothing big and scary._ ”_ _

__“ _You know what they say about small packages,_ ” Natasha observes darkly._ _

__“ _Yeah? Is that what Barton told you?_ ”_ _

__“ _No, that’s what Pepper told me._ ”_ _

__“ _She’s such a gossip. Always praising my manhood._ ”_ _

__“ _Wouldn’t call it praise._ ”_ _

__“ _They’re on the move,_ ” Clint says. “ _Time to call it._ ”_ _

__“ _I don’t like this,_ ” Coulson remarks. “ _The intel didn’t say anything about a hand-off. We have no idea what they might be moving._ ”_ _

__“ _If it’s weapons, we need to head them off,_ ” Natasha puts in._ _

__“ _If it’s weapons, and they spook, there could be serious collateral damage._ ” Coulson still doesn’t sound worried. He sounds cautious._ _

__“Anything from the scans?”_ _

__“ _Not a thing,_ ” Bruce replies. “ _If there’s an energy signature, it’s shielded._ ”_ _

__“ _Come on, guys. This is A.I.M.. We go in, we grab them, we go get pizza. The end. _” Steve can almost hear Tony bouncing anxiously.___ _

____Steve pauses, goes over things in his head, then asks, “Clint?”_ _ _ _

____Clint pauses, too, and Steve has to wonder what variables he’s weighing, how this scenario looks from up high. “ _We lose sight of whatever they just sold, we might not see it again ‘til things start blowing up. I’d feel a lot better if it was packed up in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s garage._ ”_ _ _ _

____“Alright then.” Steve would say it’s an easy call, but he’s of the opinion that there should never be any such thing. “Natasha and I are on point. Clint will cover us, and Tony will block their exits. Bruce, watch the monitors, and let us know if anything starts powering up. Coulson, call in a team to clean up when we’re done and be ready if we need you. Good?”_ _ _ _

____He always gives them that out, gives them a chance to tell him it’s a bad plan, and they will, sometimes very loudly and at great length. This time, every one just sounds off, ready to go._ _ _ _

____“Quick and quiet is the name of the game, Avengers. Let’s move.”_ _ _ _

____Ultimately, things turn out to be neither quick nor quiet, but that, as Clint will tell him repeatedly over the next several days, is not Steve’s fault._ _ _ _

____There’s no room for stealth, so Steve puts on his best Captain America face and marches right up to the knot of A.I.M. scientists and men with dark glasses. “Looks like you boys are having a party and didn’t invite me. Like to hurt a fella’s feelings.”_ _ _ _

____Not one of his better quips, but it does the trick. All guns and eyes are now trained on him, which means that none of them notice Natasha coming up behind them. There’s a scuffle and some shooting, and Steve is almost getting bored when one of the men reaches into his nondescript black bag and pulls out an equally nondescript metal disc._ _ _ _

____That’s when Bruce and Tony both start yelling._ _ _ _

____“... _levels of quantum energy_...”_ _ _ _

____“... _the hell did they get their hands on_...”_ _ _ _

____“... _increasing. You’ve got maybe three..._ ”_ _ _ _

____“... _get out of there now!_ ”_ _ _ _

____Steve hurls his shield and knocks the man to the ground, sending the disc flying. It skitters to a stop not ten feet from Steve’s position. He dives for it, but a hail of gunfire sends him ducking behind a retaining wall._ _ _ _

____“What is that thing?” he demands, but any answer he might have gotten is drowned out by the sudden sound of Coulson’s voice._ _ _ _

____“ _Barton!_ ”_ _ _ _

____Steve looks out to see Clint sprinting toward the disc, loosing one arrow after another as he runs. Without a second thought, Steve breaks cover, determined to get to the disc before Clint does. If it’s some kind of explosive, he’ll be damned before he just sits there and lets one of his people jump on it._ _ _ _

____“ _Cap, run! I got this!_ ”_ _ _ _

____Steve doesn’t dignify that with a response, but he does realize that the remaining bad guys aren’t running away but toward them toward them, converging on the disc._ _ _ _

____“ _Clint, no!_ ”_ _ _ _

____He has just enough time to think that, for once, Coulson sounds worried before everything vanishes in a flash of white._ _ _ _

____***_ _ _ _

____“What do you call a freshly kidnapped Captain America?”_ _ _ _

____They’re in a concrete room, bound to a pair of steel chairs, facing away from each other. Steve can’t help but think that it’s all very cliche._ _ _ _

____“I don’t know. What?”_ _ _ _

____“Mint in box.”_ _ _ _

____Steve groans._ _ _ _

____“Okay, not my best,” Clint admits, “but the other options all had to do with torture.”_ _ _ _

____Steve swallows and keeps the unease out of his voice. “Yeah, that was definitely better.”_ _ _ _

____He’s never been tortured, never stayed captured long enough for anyone to try, but he’s seen what remains of the men who have been, seen the scars and the shakes and the way they jump at the sight of ordinary objects._ _ _ _

____Clint has. The files are all redacted to the point of illegibility, but “coercive tactics” isn’t a difficult euphemism to decipher. Clint sees something coming that Steve can hardly imagine._ _ _ _

____“In any case, I hardly think torture is on the table,” he says confidently. “I intend to be long gone before they even think of questions to ask.”_ _ _ _

____“Yeah? You got a plan to that effect?”_ _ _ _

____“I’m working on it.”_ _ _ _

____“Well, Cap, I’d really appreciate it if you could keep me in the loop.”_ _ _ _

____There’s no hint of nerves in Clint’s voice, but Steve doesn’t know if that’s because he’s not concerned or because he’s... well, because he’s Clint._ _ _ _

____“I figure that disc was some kind of teleporter,” Steve says. “No telling where it dropped us off, so....”_ _ _ _

____“Canada,” Clint cuts in. “Or close enough. I saw the tags on the trucks that picked us up.”_ _ _ _

____“Oh.” Steve had been too busy trying to shake off the disorientation of suddenly being in a field with lots of people pointing guns at him to have noticed license plates. “Good eyes.”_ _ _ _

____“That’s my job, sir.” His replies to praise always sound pleased and just a little bit surprised. “They didn’t take out the bio-trackers, though, and these guys aren’t stupid.”_ _ _ _

____“They must have a way to disable the trackers or block the signal.” Steve frowns. “So we can’t exactly count on the cavalry.”_ _ _ _

____“Are you kidding? S.H.I.E.L.D. probably called all hands on deck the second you disappeared.”_ _ _ _

____It doesn’t escape Steve’s notice that Clint says _you_ and not _we_ , but he lets it pass. “It could take them a while to find us, though,” he says, “and I’ve never been one sit around waiting to get rescued. How about you?”_ _ _ _

____“No, sir, Captain, sir.” There is a rustle of movement from behind him, and suddenly Clint’s hands are on his wrists, undoing the ropes. “Maybe we can make it home in time for dinner.”_ _ _ _

____Steve can’t help but laugh. “Alright, I’m impressed.” From the corner of his eye, he can just see the edge of Clint’s face and his pleased smile. Steve’s hands are free in seconds, and he’s reaching for the bindings at his feet when the heavy iron door slams open._ _ _ _

____The first of them isn’t even through the door when Clint’s on him, and he’s on his knees after a few quick kicks and an uppercut to the nose. Steve is pulling at the last knots around his ankles as Clint turns on the next intruder, a woman, who raises her gun and shoots him in the stomach._ _ _ _

____Steve cries out and lurches forward, but the rope is still around his ankle and all he can do is stand there as the woman grabs Clint by the hair and spins him around to face Steve. She puts the gun to Clint’s head and says calmly, “Stand down, Captain.”_ _ _ _

____Steve freezes. Blood is pouring out of the wound in Clint’s stomach, running down across his hips and legs, shining like an oil slick on the black of his suit. His eyes are wide with shock and fixed on Steve’s. “C-cap...?”_ _ _ _

____“It’s okay,” Steve says, even though it’s very definitely not. “You’re okay, Clint. Everything’s gonna be fine.”_ _ _ _

____“Yes, it will,” the woman agrees, “so long as you cooperate. Now sit down and keep your hands above your head.”_ _ _ _

____Steve complies, and more men in suits come through the door to re-secure him to his chair. This time, they’re smart enough to use handcuffs. The moment’s Steve is bound to her satisfaction, the woman shoves Clint unceremoniously toward her companions._ _ _ _

____Clint’s fists clench, as if longing to strike out, but he doesn’t struggle, doesn’t fight. His breathing is strained and wet, and his feet scrabble on the bloody floor as two men grab him by the arms and haul him away._ _ _ _


	2. Detective AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I woke up one morning with the entire plot for a detective AU in my head.
> 
> Special Agent Steve Rogers is sent to investigate a rising criminal organization controlled by a cunning and violent man known as Loki. The local police chief, Captain Fury, assigns Steve to the case with Detectives Coulson and Hill, and they're assisted by the brilliant and reclusive coroner, Dr Banner, and the equally brilliant and doubly infuriating technical consultant, Tony Stark. Things get complicated when they track down Loki's brother, wealthy socialite Thor Odinson, who reveals that Loki may have larger aims than simple crime. The keys to this case may come from inside Loki's own organization, however, in the form of two unexpected figures: Clint Barton, Coulson's brash and charming criminal informant, and a mysterious woman known only as "The Widow". 
> 
> As a hired gun in Loki's personal entourage, Barton is able to keep Steve and the detectives on top of the operation, but, when Loki learns of Barton's involvement with the police, things take a turn for the worse... and the personal.

Coulson stopped dead in the doorway, and the steady line of his shoulders shuddered suddenly as if he had been punched in the gut. The hesitation lasted only a half a heartbeat before he went immediately to Barton’s side. Steve came cautiously after him and paused, feeling a wrench of his own at the sight.

The figure in the hospital bed was unrecognizable as the fierce, sharp-grinned man Steve had met. Every inch of Barton that wasn’t wrapped in white was blackened with bruises, and enough of his face was visible around the plastic breathing mask to show that his handsome features had been badly battered.

Whoever had done this had been exceptionally thorough and had taken exceptional delight in the task.

Coulson didn’t take the requisite visitor’s chair but sat gingerly on the bed next to Barton’s still form. He laid a gentle hand on one patch of bare, bruised skin on Barton’s arm and, for a long moment, just stayed there looking, hardly breathing, as if he needed to confront his racing heart with evidence that Barton, despite the damage, was safe and whole.

Steve shut the door quietly and closed the window shades, giving them a measure of privacy, and stood watching Coulson with his hand on Barton’s skin as a few small pieces clicked into place.

“Is there something you’d like to say, Agent Rogers?” Coulson asked without turning his head, his eyes fixed on Barton.

For a moment, Steve considered dissembling, but Coulson was too smart and the moment was too personal for feigned ignorance. “He’s not just your CI.”

Coulson sighed, running his thumb in absent circles on Barton’s arm. At last, he said, “I’ve known a lot of good men. A lot of criminals and killers and victims of circumstance. I’ve known other informants, other survivors, other good people trapped in bad lives.” His gaze stayed down, on Barton’s face, and he didn’t look at Steve. “I’ve known a lot of people who were everything he is, but I have _never_ known anyone like him.” He smiled, thin and tired but still somehow warm. “I can’t explain it. He caught me by surprise, I suppose. He always does.”

Steve frowned. Coulson wasn’t a wide-eyed rookie lost in romance, and he certainly wasn’t the type to be taken in by a sweet smile and a good ass. Whatever this thing was, it was real, and it ran deep. “What are you gonna do?”

Coulson did look at him, then, his face hard. “I’m going to do everything in my power to ensure that the creature responsible for this spends the rest of his life in a cage,” he replied. “Beyond that, I think my future depends greatly on what _you_ intend to do.”

“If I report you....”

“If you report me, I’ll lose my shield. Best case scenario, I’ll spend the next several years in uniform and work my way back up. Worst case, I’ll be indicted by internal affairs and thrown off the force. I’m aware of the consequences.” Coulson held Steve’s eyes evenly. “I won’t ask you to lie for me. You have to do your job, and I respect that. All I ask is that you let me see this case through. Let me see Loki in handcuffs before I have to face that.”

Steve looked from Coulson to Barton, beaten and still breathing, and thought about a woman with red lips and a razor wit and wondered what he would have risked for her, if he’d had to. “It doesn’t have to....” He sighed and shook his head to clear away the memories. “I don’t want to ruin your career. You’re a good man and a good cop, and we don’t have enough of either. I know it’s rough, but if you just.... I don’t know, if you break it off, then-”

“No.” Coulson’s voice was hard, final, edged with something unbreakable. “No. I knew what I was doing when I got involved with him, and I stand by the decision I’ve made every day for the last four years.”

Steve blinked. “You’d give up everything you’ve worked for just to be with him?”

“Agent Rogers,” Coulson said plainly, “I’d give up everything. Full stop.”


	3. requisite Avengers gangbang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone in this fandom is required to write at least one team gangbang. I wrote half of one. Does that count?
> 
>  **BE WARNED** : This one has porn. Proceed accordingly.

Team meetings were rarely relaxed affairs, but the thick tension that filled the air was suffocating. Phil’s skin prickled, and he found himself praying for a punch to be thrown, shouting, name-calling, violent declarations, _anything_. He tugged at his loosened tie and cleared his throat.

“The results are back from medical,” he announced. “They’re still analyzing the traces on the device, but the chemical appears to be an aerosolized compound designed to stimulate the production of specific hormones. In short....”

“In short, we got hit with a sex bomb,” Tony said, drumming his fingers on the conference table. Beside him, Pepper fanned her flushed face with a folded slip of paper.

Phil shifted in his seat. “Essentially, yes.”

“Will it, um....” Steve coughed and stared at his hands like he didn’t trust himself to look anywhere else. “I mean, it’s not, uh, permanent?”

Phil shook his head, as much in reply as to keep himself from also staring at Steve’s big, strong hands. “No, no. Depending on rates of metabolism, the effects should wear off in the next ten to twelve hours.”

“And in this wretched interim?” Thor demanded, pacing back and forth across the length of the room with a stormy expression. “Are we to suffer this desire without relief until the poison is gone?”

“Well, you and Steve should get through it pretty fast,” Bruce replied. He alone seemed calm, as even and centered as he always was. “The rest of us could go under sedation, but....”

“No way to know how the drugs would interact,” Tony finished for him. His drumming was becoming more rapid and arrhythmic. Natasha, still and tense, was eyeing him with a look that alternated between cold murder and unsettling, predatory hunger. 

“So cold shower and lots of personal time,” Clint said, and Phil didn’t need to look at him to know that he was spinning a pencil between his deft fingers, didn’t need to see his face to know the slide of muscles in his jaw as he spoke.

Phil swallowed hard. “Actually, we’ve been advised to, uh, make use of appropriate outlets to alleviate the tension in order to avoid the potential for... unpleasant... side effects....” He trailed off as they stared at him, blinking.

Steve opened his mouth, closed it, and finally said, “So we’re supposed to...?”

“Yes.” Phil didn’t look at him, couldn’t look at Clint, was uncertain of looking any of them in the eye. He could feel sweat beading under his collar and in the crooks of his arms. “I believe it would be unwise to involve any unaffected civilians. Fortunately, however, I believe some of us are... well, flexible, with regard to sexuality, and we do have an even number. So....”

To his surprise, Bruce coughed out a laugh. “You want us to, what? Pair off? Draw straws?”

Phil cleared his throat, and did not look at Clint. “I’m sure we can find a way t-”

“Oh for christ’s sake,” Clint said suddenly, a thin, notched edge on his voice. “Look, we’re all in the same boat, here, right? And we’re a team, we trust each other. Hell, some of us even _like_ each other. Right?” There was a round of faint nods, and Phil did not believe this could possibly be going the way he thought it was until Clint kicked back his chair and stood, saying, “Well, then would somebody please just fuck me?”

Thor was across the room and on him before anyone could think of an objection.

He lifted Clint by the waist and slammed him back into the wall with enough force to shake the room. Phil’s pulse stuttered with the impact, and Clint’s grasping groan throbbed in his veins. Clint hitched up his knees and hooked his ankles at the small of Thor’s back, held up by Thor’s huge hands digging into his hips.

For a long moment, no one moved, transfixed by the outburst of lust and the filthy, wet noise of Thor’s mouth on Clint’s skin, and Phil felt frozen and restless and burning all at once. There was the sound of of heavy fabric ripping, and, yes, this was happening.

“Wait!” 

Everyone jumped at the interruption of Tony’s voice, and Phil’s heart seemed ready to pound itself out through his throat. Thor glared over his shoulder, panting, and Clint let his head fall back against the wall. “God _dammit_ , Stark. _What?_ ”

Tony laid his palms flat on the table and took a deep breath. “Forty-second floor. End of the hall. Room’s got everything we need.” He raised an eyebrow at Clint. “Unless you wanna do this dry.”

The grin Clint gave him was sharp and wicked and hit something deep in the pit of Phil’s stomach. “Not gonna be dry for much longer.”

The edge went out of Thor’s expression, and he wrapped a hand gently around the back of Clint’s neck. “I confess, my need is mighty, and the passion you invite is great,” he said. “Yet I would not - _will not_ \- do you harm. I ask that you take pleasure with me, but I will claim no more than you would gladly give.”

Clint’s mouth twitched, a flicker of surprise, but he said lightly, “Well, how can I say no to that?” He rolled his hips, pressing himself into Thor, and Phil could only too easily imagine the rough slide of heat and hardness. Thor groaned and caught Clint’s mouth in a ravenous kiss.

Then, without warning, he heaved Clint over his shoulder like little more than a heavy sack and boomed, grinning, “Come, my friends! What our enemies think a hardship, we shall make a joy, and I lay first claim to the fair archer.”

With that, he turned and walk out, Clint bobbing across his shoulder and grinning like an idiot. Tony followed close behind, gripping Pepper’s hand and calling to the rest of them, “Move it or lose it, Avengers!”

Natasha cast a glance at Phil, and he tried to shrug, wanted to nod or speak or give some sign of assent. All he could think of, though, was the possibility unfolding before him and the curve of Clint’s ass under Thor’s arm. His face must have been as flushed and blank as he felt, because Natasha rolled her eyes. Still, it was Steve who stood first.

“I’ve heard of victory sex, but this seems a little extreme,” he said, smiling faintly. There was high color on his cheeks, and the swell of growing arousal was visible in his khakis. “It’s up to you, obviously, how you’d like to handle your own... situation, but, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m gonna join the others upstairs.”

As he headed for the door, Natasha turned to Bruce. “What do you say, doc?”

Bruce shrugged and gave her a smile. “Could be fun.”

They walked out together, leaving Phil with a questioning look. After a second of strange, weighing silence, Phil muttered, “God help me”, and went after his team.

When he got to the room on the forty-second floor, he was almost surprised to see that it had a bed, though it might be more accurate to say that it had a large, cushioned platform. There were a few small couches against the walls, a chest-of-drawers near the bed that, Phil presumed, did not contain clothes, and at least one box of condoms and bottle of lube within easy reach of any given point. 

Clint was already naked, his cock full and hard, and Thor was pressed bare-chested against his back, holding him still with massive arms. Pepper and Bruce were stretched out on the bed, kissing and touching lazily, while Natasha sat with Steve on one of the couches and ran her fingers through his thick hair.

In the middle of it all, Tony stood with his shirt off and his pants open, and he clapped delightedly when he saw Phil. “Great! Everybody’s here! Okay, house rules. Green is good, yellow isn’t, red or three taps means stop what you’re doing and back off. Anybody opts out or looks like they’re not having a good time, let ‘em walk.” Pointing to the chest-of-drawers, he said, “Toys are there. Be considerate. Other supplies are wherever you can find them. Everybody good with any partners?” There was a chorus of assent. “Awesome. Give me a green for go.”

“Green,” Natasha said. She twisted her fingers in Steve’s hair, and he moaned.

“Ah, yeah. Green.”

“Green,” Bruce called, and Pepper added, “Already going.”

“I am most assuredly prepared,” Thor told him, running a hand over Clint’s heaving chest. Clint’s eyes were closed, his head lolled back on Thor’s shoulder.

Tony looked to Phil. “You good to go, Agent?”

Phil didn’t look at Clint and nodded. “Green.”

“Barton?”

“Anybody ever tell you you talk too much, Stark?” Clint groaned

Tony stepped forward and gripped Clint’s jaw, forcing his head up, and Clint’s blue eyes drifted open, hazy and dazed. “I need you to listen to me,” Tony said in a clear, uncompromising voice. “I’ve got sex bomb hormones coming out of my pores, and my immediate plan for dealing with that is to fuck you up so bad you forget your own name. Thor’s gonna help with that, and, the way things are going, you might wind up getting passed around like a dirty secret.” He paused and addressed the room at large. “Everybody else wants a turn on Barton, right?”

Steve, still hypnotized by Natasha’s touch, raised his hand, as did Pepper. “It’s a good ride,” Natasha put in.

Tony turned, once again, to Phil. “You, too, Coulson? You wanna fuck Barton?”

For the first time, Phil let his gaze linger on Clint, on the fine muscles and parted lips and the small, sweet lines at the corners of his mouth. Phil swallowed hard and nodded.

Tony grinned, obviously pleased with himself. “You see that, Hawkeye? Everybody wants a piece, and, if any part of that doesn’t sound like the best idea you’ve ever heard, I need you to tell me right now.”

Clint’s eyes were angled toward Phil, his lashes low and dark. Slowly, he closed them and breathed out, “Green.”

The smile Tony gave him was positively beaming. “Excellent! Let’s get this party started! Pepper, honey, you got Bruce covered?” From the bed, Pepper gave him a thumbs up, then put her hand back to considerably better use. “Fantastic!” To Thor, he said. “Alright, stud. You take the back, I’ve got the front.”

Phil watched as Thor stepped back to strip away the rest of his clothes, and Tony pulled Clint in for a long, slow kiss. Clint’s eyes were shut, his hands clasped behind his back, as Tony dragged his fingernails down Clint’s arms, leaving faint red lines in their wake. Clint moaned into his mouth, and Tony smirked. “Oh, this is gonna be _awesome_ ,” he said. “Get on your knees.”

Clint dropped so fast, it was dizzying, and it wasn’t until Tony was sliding his cock into Clint’s open mouth that Phil realized how painfully hard he was. He also realized, suddenly, that he was the only one left alone.

Pepper was straddling Bruce on the bed, her tight suit skirt rucked up around her hips, both of them completely consumed with each other. Steve had melted completely into Natasha’s touch as she stripped away his clothes with slow deliberation. Clint.... Well. Thor was on his knees, working one slick finger carefully into Clint’s ass, and Clint was lapping at Tony’s cock like the last oasis in a long desert.

Standing there in his suit with a throbbing erection straining at the front of his slacks, Phil decided this was, without a doubt, the single most awkward moment of his life.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Natasha whisper something in Steve’s ear, and they both cast a look in his direction. Unexpectedly, Natasha rose and sauntered, smooth and sensuous, across the room toward him, pulling off her shirt as she went. Drawing close, she reached back and unhooked her bra and let it drop to the floor. Her breasts hung heavy and full, brightened with a flush that left her taut nipples red.

With a smile that gave truth to her predator’s legacy, she took hold of his tie and pulled him in. Her mouth was scorching on his lips, and she tasted of salt and something strangely sweet. “You look a little lost.”

Phil snorted. “I feel like a teenager at a house party,” he said wryly, and she laughed.

“Come on.” She threaded her fingers through his and led him gently back to the couch where Steve sat naked and patient, one hand wrapped motionless around his hard cock. “Sit,” Natasha commanded, and Phil obeyed without hesitation as she stripped away her pants and underwear.

The moment he was in reach, Steve gripped the back of his neck and kissed him, insistent and tender at once, and Phil’s heart pounded, his whole body alive with sensation and need. Natasha rolled a condom onto Steve and climbed into his lap. As she slid down on him, Steve shuddered and bit down on Phil’s lip.

“Sorry,” he mumbled shyly, and Phil replied by nipping at his ear, trailing sharp bites along his jaw. Steve groaned and tightened his grip on Phil’s neck. Grinning wickedly, Natasha drew herself up and thrust back down.

All Phil’s senses were filled with the taste of Steve’s skin, the scent of Natasha’s wet cunt, and the unbearable heat searing him from the inside out. Desperate for relief, he tugged open his slacks and finally, _finally_ curled his fist around his aching cock. He sighed and stroked slowly, hardly moving, even as he sucked at Steve’s tongue. It was so very nearly too much, and it would be over in an instant.

Natasha rocked against Steve in a slow, steady rhythm, and each motion jolted through Phil like a shock. He swallowed Steve’s rough, panting breath and slid his free hand up Natasha’s smooth thigh, feeling the muscles shift as she moved. She flashed a smile and eased her hand into Phil’s pants, wrapping her fingers tight around his and urging him faster. 

From somewhere in the room, there was a cry, sharp and loud over the low moans and the slap of flesh. He looked up to see Tony’s shoulders tense as he shuddered and thrust hard into Clint’s mouth, coming with a desperate sound that vibrated in Phil’s bones. Pepper cried out in reply, like they were bound by a wire that kept their pleasures in tune, and she worked her hips faster on top of Bruce.

“Oh my god,” Steve breathed, and Phil kissed him harder, quickening his strokes to match Natasha’s pace. 

Need and want and joy glowed hot inside Phil, and he felt he could not look too closely at these sensations for fear of being blinded by them. Surely he was going to burn up, here, with Steve’s tongue in his mouth and Natasha’s hand on his cock, the sound and scent of pleasure all around him.

Natasha did something, twisted her wrist in some strange way that sent a shock up his spine, and suddenly the tide was unstoppable. One last press, and he came, gasping against Steve’s lips, an endless wave that seemed to pull him inside out and leave his gut hollow.

He slumped into Steve, but Steve wouldn’t let him go, devouring Phil’s mouth with single-minded purpose and huffing with effort as he rolled up to meet Natasha. Phil let himself bask in the hazy afterglow and opened up for Steve. 

The post-orgasm euphoria was strange, though, edged with something like the hunger that lingers after a too-small meal. He was spent, but his skin still yearned for touch. His blood still surged with the need for satisfaction and made him restless as the pleasure faded.

He extricated himself gingerly, and Steve gave a whimper at the loss of his kisses, a whimper that turned into a shout as Natasha dragged her fingernails sharply across his chest. Phil smiled, gave Natasha a brief, delving kiss, and left them to it.

Pepper and Tony were stretched on the floor, still partly clothed and making out lazily. Pepper had one hand reached out to card her fingers gently through Clint’s hair even as Thor was making every effort to fuck him through the floor. 

Clint’s face was hidden in his folded arms, but the noises wringing out of him were wrecked and shattered. Every muscle was tight, braced against the onslaught of Thor’s relentless pounding. The ground beneath Clint was streaked with come from some previous release, and now his flaccid cock slapped weakly against his thigh.

Phil paused. The sight of Clint’s bare, trembling back and Thor’s massive cock sliding in and out of his spread ass stirred the unbearable embers in his belly, but the heat it raised fought against the chilling impulse to make sure Clint was alright, to see that he was truly lost in pleasure and not holding out through pain.

“He’s fine.” Phil looked over to see Bruce lounging on the bed, watching him with dark, heavy eyes. “Tony checked in a minute ago.”

Tony glanced up at the sound of his name and gave Phil a vague, pleased grin. “Who? Barton? Oh, he’s doing great. Aren’t you, buddy?” With the flat of his palm, he slapped Clint hard on the side, and Clint jerked and cried out. 

Thor, beaming, didn’t miss a beat. “Truly, the force of it does spur his lust, else I would be more tender.” He grabbed Clint by the hair and hauled him up off the ground, forcing his back to arch tight like a drawn bow.

Clint’s eyes were closed, his mouth slack and lips raw, and there was a damp smear of come on his cheek. Phil had spent a lot of time wanting so badly to kiss Clint and even more time trying desperately not to want it, but it was that moment that destroyed him. At that moment, it took everything he had not to rush in and kiss the swollen red away, and Phil knew that he was lost.

Still gripping Clint’s hair, Thor laid a steadying hand on Clint’s back and said gently, if breathlessly, “Say that you are well, my friend, and ease our minds.”

Clint moaned something that might have been words, and Thor slowed to let him catch his thoughts. “Good. Green. Good. God. Fuck,” he panted, and Thor looked smug, giving his shoulder a swift kiss before he slammed Clint’s face back to the floor and quickened his pace.

Phil swallowed hard. Pepper smiled, soft and understanding, and assured him gently, “Don’t worry, Phil. We’ve got him.”

“Pep’s got him when Thor’s done, though. So you’re gonna have to get in line,” Tony said. Then he gave Pepper a quick glance and added, “Actually, why don’t you get down here.”

“Hold on a second,” Pepper said, rising smoothly to her knees. She slipped her slim fingers under his waistband and pulled down his pants and boxers together, letting them fall in a heap over the tops of his shoes. She eyed the come drying on his cock with delight. “Oh. It looks like you’ve already had a bit of fun. Tony, sweetheart, would you take care of this?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Always with the clean-up,” he muttered, but he knelt in front of Phil as Pepper stood and gave Phil a sharp grin. “Who knew SHIELD agents got so dirty.”

“This hardly seems the time to discuss work,” Phil replied dryly. 

“Are you kidding?” Tony said. “We were adversely affected in the line of duty. We should get overtime for this.”

Pepper slipped off Phil’s suit jacket and sighed. “Let’s just call it a bonus, shall we?”

“Works for me.” Tony shrugged and, without further preamble, took Phil’s cock into his mouth.

Phil gasped, his skin still over-sensitive, all his nerves soft and raw, and Tony’s hot tongue was like a burning brand. Pepper steadied him with hands on his shoulders and whispered in his ear, “It’s okay. We’ve got you. Just let him.”

He relaxed slightly into her touch and gave himself over as Tony sucked and licked the come off of his cock and Pepper slowly, meticulously undressed him.

From across the room, Natasha threw back her head and screamed in Russian, and Steve howled a second later, burying his face in her flushed breasts. Phil had the sudden urge to applaud. Still lying on the bed, Bruce did.

The whole situation was strange and awkward and unfamiliar, but it also, Phil realized, made perfect sense.


	4. and then this happened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve/Phil/Clint. Does what it says on the tin. I think I was trying to make an insightful observation about relationship dynamics? Who knows.

Steve’s not the mischievous sort, but he’s spent enough time around people who are to recognize the look.

When Bucky had it, he was usually planning something where girls were involved. When Tony has it, something is likely to blow up very soon. On the rare occasion that Natasha has it, it’s a fair guess she had something to do with one of the day’s more dramatic news headlines.

When Clint has it, like he does now, swaggering toward Steve across the gym floor, all bets are off.

“Got a proposition for you, Cap,” he says, and his smile is all sweetness and charm. It’s the one he wears when he wants something and is prepared to con someone to get it.

“This is going to be one of those things, isn’t it?” Steve asks, giving him a dubious frown.

“One of what things?”

“One of those things that I think is a bad idea until you spend half an hour convincing me it’s not. Then I agree, and it turns out to be a bad idea after all.”

Clint pauses, considering. “Well, you’re probably right about the first part, but, at the very least, I guarantee this isn’t something you’ll regret. The opposite of regret, even. You’ll thank me.”

His plans might not live up to his aim, but Clint never pitches an idea unless he’s sure and he never asks for anything unless it’s important. Steve turns to face him and folds his arms over his chest. “I’m listening.”

“Okay, so, your first instinct is gonna be to say no, but don’t say no. Just hear me out and think about it before you answer. If you need to take some time, that’s okay, too. It’s just that, whatever you say, I have to go back and tell Coulson, and if you say no right off the bat? I can’t deal with that kind of disappointment from him. I really can’t.”

Clint’s not exactly a smooth negotiator, not when he wants something, but Steve can only take so much of his guileless chatter and big blue eyes. “Clint....”

“And, for the record, this wasn’t my idea, but I’m totally on board. Okay, it might have been a little bit my idea. Look, what I’m saying is it’s a mutual decision, so you don’t have to feel weird about it or....”

“Clint,” Steve cuts him off. “What do you want?”

Clint takes a deep breath, and the con-man smile is gone. Now he looks like he’s sighting his target, adjusting aim and approach, zeroing in on a spot in the center of Steve’s heart, steadying, and firing. “I want you to make love to my husband.”

The words are there, suspended in the air between them. It takes Steve a moment to make sense of them and a moment longer to realize that Clint is deadly serious.

“You want me to....” Steve shakes his head. “You want me to sleep with Agent Coulson?”

Clint shrugs. “I want you to give him a night of mind-blowing sex. Sleeping is optional.”

Steve blinks, opens his mouth, closes it again. This conversation is nowhere near as strange or awkward as he thinks it should be, but he still isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say.

Clint rolls his eyes and goes on. “Look, this is something we decided together, so you don’t have to feel weird. And you don’t have to worry about me getting jealous or whatever, because I won’t.” He gives Steve a smirk. “Also, I can personally vouch for his stamina, creativity, and, uh, endowments. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

No, Steve is fairly sure that disappointed is the last thing he would be. “Two questions.”

“Shoot.”

“Why?”

Clint looks at him like he might be a little slow and in need of a simple explanation using small words. “Because he’s had a crush on you since before he knew what his dick was for. Because he _still_ has a crush on you. Because he wants to. Because it’ll make him happy, and that’s what _I_ want.” His eyes sharpen, fixing on Steve. “Because I trust you. You, Rogers, of all people. I trust you with him.”

There’s not a lot of Steve can say to that, so he just nods. He won’t pretend to understand the love and logic that have brought Clint here, but he understands trust. “What about you?” he asks.

“What about me?” Clint snorts. “He’s not gonna leave me to go chasing you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No, of course not. I just....” This is one of those moments where Steve considers the direction his life has taken and wonders whether he did something exactly right or terribly wrong. “If I.... If _we_ do this, will you be there?”

Clint’s a terrible liar and a worse poker player, and Steve can’t miss the twinge of doubt that crosses his face even as he says casually, “I don’t have to be.”

“Do you want to be?”

“Yes,” he says slowly, “but if that’s a dealbreaker....”

“It’s not,” Steve assures him, and Clint relaxes. “I need to think about it, though.”

Clint smiles, genuine and pleased. “Take your time. You know where we live.” He strolls out, and Steve doesn’t feel too bad about watching the muscles of his back move as he walks away.

Steve does think about it, but not for very long.

A part of him still thinks that this is the sort of thing that happens in secret, that they should check into a discrete hotel under assumed names, so the invitation to dinner is a little unexpected. Clint cooks something called paella that Steve’s never heard of. It smells amazing and tastes even better.

“He likes it,” Clint says, tilting his head at Coulson, “but he makes me make it wrong.”

“You make it perfectly,” Coulson replies mildly.

“It’s supposed to have cilantro.”

“Only if want it to taste like soap.”

“Or if you have functioning taste buds.”

“There is nothing wrong with my sense of taste.”

“Tell that to the spice cabinet.”

“Not all dishes require chili powder and cumin by the fistful.”

Steve thinks about cutting in, but the bickering is somehow soothing. They’re like this on missions, too. And in briefings. And during downtime. And all the time, really. It’s the sniping that comes with over-familiarity between equals, and it’s softened by the comfortable closeness of real affection.

“No taste, Coulson. None.”

“Well, there is my taste in men.”

“You married me. That is the opposite of taste.”

“You made me dinner and convinced Captain Rogers to spend the evening with us,” Coulson says. “I’m content with my choice.”

Clint gives him a quick kiss for that and starts to clear away the dishes, grinning broadly. Coulson’s eyes linger on his face, and the quiet adoration in them makes Steve’s heart ache.

“To tell you the truth, I didn’t take much convincing,” Steve says.

Coulson smiles. “That’s good to hear. I was afraid he was going to wheedle you until you gave in just to shut him up.”

“That’s what I do to _you_ ,” Clint puts in. “Everyone else, I just say please.”

Coulson touches Clint’s wrist gently as he reaches for another plate. “Leave it.”

Steve’s seen pornography, the glossy photo cards the other soldiers kept in their gear and the various sorts of films scattered around the internet, but flat images are nothing to the soft, sudden intake of breath and the darkening in Clint’s eyes. Coulson catches Steve’s glance, and his smile deepens.

Clint gives Steve a grin, licking his lips. “What do you say we get this party started, Cap?” 

Steve swallows. If he’s going to back out, now is the time. They wouldn’t blame him, there would be no strangeness. He could make his apologies and leave without consequence.

Coulson is watching him with steady blue eyes, patient and expectant and, Steve realizes, hesitantly hopeful. Steve holds his gaze and stands slowly, circling the table. Clint backs away, giving Steve space to move in close. Coulson - Phil, Steve thinks - is still watching in calm silence, even as Steve looms above him. Steve hooks one finger under his jaw and gently tilts back his head, feeling the shift of skin and muscle as he breathes.

“Sure about this?” Steve asks, and he hasn’t realized until this instant how very much he wants the answer to be yes.

The look Phil gives him is somehow both affectionate and irritated, but he lifts a hand to Steve’s arm, his touch warm and reassuring. “I’m sure.”

That’s enough for Steve, and he leans in for a soft, slow kiss. Phil tastes like spices and wine, and his fingers tighten around Steve’s arm as Steve’s tongue slides slowly across his lips. Steve slips his hand around to cradle the back of Phil’s head and presses their mouths harder together, lips crushed and bruising, and Steve wishes he could learn to stop breathing and just do this forever.

Phil bites down on Steve’s bottom lip and a shiver of need rattles in his bones, shaking out of him in a breathless groan. He can feel Phil’s smile against his mouth. Steve pulls back enough to see Phil’s face, flushed and pleased. The hesitation is gone from his expression, and the patience is now edged with want.

“Bedroom?” Steve says, and Phil nods. Steve steps back, holding out a hand. Phil gives him a surprised smile and lays his strong, callused fingers in Steve’s palm. Standing, he guides Steve through the dining room toward a short hallway.

Clint is standing to the side, hands behind his back, watching them with starving eyes, and Phil pauses to ask, “Are you coming?”

Clint looks between them, uncertain. “This is your shindig, boss. I don’t wanna get in the way.”

He does, though. It’s written in every line of him how much he wants to reach out, to be a part of this, but Steve knows that he won’t move from that spot unless he’s drawn in.

“May I?” Steve asks.

Phil’s smile brightens, as if Steve has done exactly the right thing. “Please.”

Clint looks startled when Steve pulls him close, but he melts into the kiss with a sigh, his body fitted against Steve’s like it belongs there. Steve feels a hand on his back, Phil urging him on, and it is that touch, familiar and permissive, that spurs Steve’s need. Clint makes a soft, bereft sound when Steve breaks away, but he doesn’t object as Steve reaches for Phil, who dodges his kiss and moves instead to suck at the tender skin of Steve’s neck.

The party, Steve thinks, has definitely started.

They make it to the bedroom eventually, minus a few articles of clothing and shoes. Steve is down to his underwear, and Phil’s chest is bare, his trousers hanging open on his hips. When Steve touches the hem of Clint’s shirt, though, he pulls away, hands still clasped behind his back. 

“No, I don’t....” Clint swallows, his eyes bright and fixed on Phil. “I wanna watch.”

The look that passes between them is unbearably full and open, and that’s when Steve gets it. This isn’t about having fun or spicing up their sex life, this is a gift and a promise. Clint wants to see Phil loved, touched and adored, wants to know what that looks like and to know that someone else sees Phil the way he does, if only for a little while.


	5. Theoretical Geometry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every kink you never knew you had. C/C genderplay where Phil occasionally likes to dress as a woman and they go out together. I wanted to focus on some of the elements of crossdressing and genderplay that tend to get glossed over in fic, like the process of transformation, the rituals involved in constructing and deconstructing identity, and the emotional intimacy in the shared transgression of boundaries. There's also a healthy dose of suit porn, bathing, service, and delayed gratification.
> 
> I'm actually a little disappointed in myself for dropping the ball on this one. I like what I've got here, and I think it could have been really interesting. Just lost interest, I suppose.

_I finally finished this one yay!_


	6. Zero Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, I was going to write a story in which there is a zombie outbreak on the helicarrier, and this is how it would have started. I went back and forth on this story for months. I feel like I had a good handle on what I wanted to do with it, but I sort of lost the thread and got sidetracked by other things. I may still finish it someday, but, for now, here's what's worth printing.

00:00:00

Clint woke to an empty bed.

Smell of linens. Space beside him still warm. The sharp glint of sunlight edging around the dark curtains. 07:42 on the clock. Sound of water in the bathroom.

He closed his eyes and rolled over, sprawling across the middle of the bed. He listened to the tap running in the sink and the whir of Phil’s electric toothbrush and thought about going back to sleep. 

The sounds from the bathroom stopped, and Clint cracked his eyes as Phil came back into the room wearing his slacks and undershirt, halfway dressed for work.

“Thought today was a day off?” he mumbled, and Phil gave him an apologetic frown.

“Ground team raided an AIM lab, yesterday. There were some unusual materials, and the director wants doctor Banner to look over the reports.”

Clint huffed. “So you have to babysit the scientist instead of staying in bed with me? That sucks.”

“It’s a sensitive situation, apparently.” Phil sat on the edge of the bed, leaning low over Clint, leg pressed warm against Clint’s side. “Level four. Fury doesn’t trust anyone else to handle it.”

Clint tilted his head back, offering his open eyes and mouth and throat, and laid a hand on Phil’s thigh. “You’re just too damn good at your job.”

“SHIELD would fall apart without me,” he agreed, and the hot, living kiss he pressed to Clint’s lips eased the sting of remembering how very nearly they had come to that falling apart.

But Clint wasn’t going to think about that, not now, not with Phil’s tongue in his mouth and fingers in his hair. The lazy warmth creeping through his skin chased away the freezing touch of memory, and he arched up off the bed, straining into the kiss.

He slipped his hand upward so that the backs of his fingers brushed lightly against the solid heat in Phil’s slacks and broke away just enough to murmur, “How much time do you have?”

“Not enough.” Phil’s breath caught on the reply. “Never enough.”

He didn’t pull away, though, just kissed Clint again, now hard and insistent, and Clint opened up for him. This, this was what Clint lived for, this was what he longed for during the long, manic days of sighting targets and nock, draw, fire. In these rare, slow moments, the taste and scent of Phil surrounding him and the slide of strong hands on his body, he could see the life beyond battle and bloodshed.

Phil reached under the crumpled sheets and into Clint’s pants to curl his fingers around Clint’s swelling cock. Clint gasped into his mouth, back arching and body humming, his whole being awake and wanting.

There was a loud buzz from the nightstand, and Clint’s slim, black phone launched into the loud cacophony of strings and percussion that signalled a call from Natasha.

“You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me,” he groaned, dropping back to the bed as Phil chuckled at his misery.

“You should probably answer that.”

“No. Nope.” Clint grabbed one of the pillows and covered his face. “Don’t wanna. Not gonna.”

Phil, traitor that he was, leaned over Clint and took the phone. “Good morning, Agent Romanov.”

Natasha’s reply was inaudible, but it made Phil laugh. “As usual, yes.” 

Phil trailed his hand along Clint’s side as he talked, and Clint curled in around him, tucking his head into the curve of Phil’s hip and clutching the pillow tighter over his head.

“Yes, I was just on my way out.... Yes.... Is everything alright?... I see. Hold on.” He tugged at Clint’s protective pillow. “It seems you don’t get a day off, either.”

Clint gave a grumble and held up his hand without moving his head. Phil set the phone in his palm, standing as Clint slid the phone under the pillow to his ear. “Five more minutes, Natasha.”

“ _Five? That’s quick, even for you._ ”

“I... set myself up for that one,” Clint sighed, peaking out from under the pillow to watch as Phil went back to dressing for the day. “What’s up?”

“ _Need you on the carrier. Weapons qualification for one of the new recruits._ ” To anyone else, it would sound like Natasha was simply delivering a message, but Clint could hear the displeasure in her tone, the satisfaction between the words telling him, _If I have to be here, then so do you_.

“That’s Quartermain’s job.”

“ _Quartermain’s sick. Food poisoning, I think._ ”

“Well, that’s what you get for eating in the commissary.”

“ _As opposed to living on the stash of MREs and chocolate you keep behind the vent in your bunk?_ ”

“The galley staff has it in for me. I don’t trust those assholes not to put salmonella in my pudding.”

“That’s a euphemism, if ever there was one,” Phil muttered, and Clint flung the pillow at his head. He caught it deftly in one hand and tossed it back onto the bed.

“ _The extent of your paranoia is astonishing,_ ” Natasha said dryly.

“It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you,” Clint shot back, watching as Phil did up the buttons on his dress shirt, slowly concealing the black kevlar beneath.

Once, he’d only worn body armor on field assignments. Since Loki, he’d started wearing it anytime he left the tower. It was his one secret concession, Clint knew, the one acknowledgment of his own mortality and the cold fear that facing his death had planted in him.

“ _They’re cooks, Clint, not Hydra agents. _”__

__“No, they’re _SHIELD_ agents.”_ _

__“ _Point,_ ” Natasha admitted. “ _The recruit will be waiting at oh nine hundred. Don’t be late._ ”_ _

__“Define ‘late’.”_ _

__There was a quiet beep as she hung up._ _

__Clint hauled himself upright in bed, sighing, and Phil gave him a sympathetic smile. “So much for that day off,” he said._ _

__Clint threw the other pillow at him._ _

__

__00:00:00_ _

__As a general rule, Clint avoided the helicarrier as much as possible. He’d never liked it much, didn’t like any place with no quick exits, but since Loki.... Since Loki, he just avoided SHIELD. The carrier was burdened with memories he didn’t want, and the other agents pretended not to be glancing at him with a mix of pity and fear that made his skin crawl._ _


	7. State of Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So y'all remember way back when fandom discovered that Renner could sing and there was a run of everyone writing lounge singer fics?
> 
> Yeah. This is _that_ fic.

Tony strode into the room with purpose, planted himself in front of Clint, and said, “Clark Bolton.”

Clint froze. Slowly, dangerously, he lifted his eyes to Tony’s and demanded in a tight, warning voice, “How do you know that name?”

A grin broke across Tony’s face, and he crowed. “I don’t believe it! It’s true!”

Clint turned to Phil with a look of rage and betrayal. “You _swore_.”

“Oh my god,” Phil muttered, dropping his head into his hands.

“You swore to me _on your life_.”

“Clint, I don’t kn-”

“ _Level thirteen classified_ , you said. _No one will ever know_ , you said.”

Steve stared bewildered at the three of them, then turned to Natasha and Bruce, who shrugged.

“Oh, give the guy a break,” Tony said, plopping into the seat beside Coulson. “I had to cut through some impressive firewalls to get that file.”

The glare Phil gave him would have reduced a lesser man to tears. “The only existing copy of that mission report was on my personal server.”

Tony’s tsked. “And how very selfish of you to deprive the rest of us of that _crucial_ information.”

“You hacked my personal server,” Phil said coldly, and Tony just grinned wider. “Stark, I am actually going to kill you.”

“Forgive me, my friends.” Thor was wearing the vaguely distressed look he got when he didn’t understand what was happening. “But who is Clark Bolton?”

“Yeah, Barton,” Tony said. “Just who _is_ Clark Bolton?”

Phil and Clint exchanged a look, communicating some thought through a series of frowns and knitted eyebrows. Finally, Clint sighed and hunched over miserably as Phil said, “We had intel that there were arms dealers selling high-tech weaponry out of a nightclub in Las Vegas. We needed to infiltrate the club to get close to the dealers.”

“Bolton was your alias?” Steve asked Clint, who covered his face and sighed again, nodding.

“Worst fake name ever, by the way,” Tony put in. “But that’s not the good part. C’mon, buddy. Tell them the good part.”

Natasha gave a startled gasp and looked at Clint with wide, horrified eyes. “Oh, _no_.”

Clint folded his arms on the table and dropped his head onto them. “Yes,” he muttered.

“That was _that_ mission?”

“Yes.” Clint sounded very much like he was thinking of all the other places in the world he would rather be.

“ _What_ mission?” Bruce demanded.

Everyone was staring at Clint, including Phil, who looked almost as miserable. Tony just sat there grinning and tapping his foot.

At last, Clint took a deep breath and sat up, fixing each of them with a serious, penetrating stare as he spoke. “First, it wasn’t my idea. Second, there was absolutely no other way to get in. Third... it was a really good cover.”

“Clint,” Steve asked gently, “what was your cover?”

Clint looked like he didn’t know whether to run or be sick or both. “I was....” He paused, steeled his nerves, and went on, “I was a lounge singer.”

***

Clint stared long and hard at his reflection in the mirror, turning first one way, then the other, examining himself from all possible angles. Satisfied that he had given the matter all due consideration, he let his arms fall by his sides and declared, “I look like a tool.”

“You look like an entertainer,” Phil said. In the mirror, Clint saw him glance up, down, then back up, his eyes moving between Clint’s back and his reflection. “A very attractive entertainer,” he amended. “In a very bad suit.”

The suit in question was a wrinkled, purple rayon monstrosity, dotted with pulled threads, repaired seams, and subtle - if ominous - stains. It was half a size too small, ten years out of date, and smelled like the trunk of somebody’s car.

“I look like the guy you avoid at your cousin’s wedding.”

Phil frowned. “You look fine. Besides, if you look too put-together, they’ll wonder what you’re doing at a dive like this.”

“I know, I just.... Purple? Really.”

“It’s mauve, and when have you ever given this much thought to your clothes?”

“I think about my clothes,” Clint said. “I think about how they’ll work as camouflage and whether I can move enough to draw a bow.” He lifted his arms as if pulling back an arrow. “That would be a ‘no’, by the way.”

“If we get into a situation that requires you to shoot someone,” Phil replied, “we’ll have bigger problems than your suit.”

“Honestly, I’d prefer a plan that was a little heavier on shooting people and lighter on me acting like an idiot.”

“The thing about shooting people is they tend to shoot back, and I’d prefer any plan where neither of us gets shot.” Phil handed him a battered wallet, filled with the tattered paper evidence of his new identity. “Ready?”

Clint scowled. “Ready? Yes. Willing? No.”

“Stop whining, Barton,” Phil said, giving Clint a friendly touch on the shoulder. “It’s showtime.”

They were staying in a downtrodden hotel a few blocks from the nightclub, and they used the short walk to get into character: Clark Bolton, a talented, hard-working singer with a chronic case of bad-luck, and his dedicated and much put-upon manager, Kevin Maxwell.

“Remember, friendly, but not pushy,” Phil warned. “You want to charm them, but not make them suspicious.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “I got it, _Max_. Not exactly a new recruit, here.”

“And lose the attitude. It’s not going to win you any favors.” He rolled his shoulders, resettling his unfamiliar and sub-standard suit coat. “You’ve got this. I know you do. I just don’t like going in blind and unarmed.”

“Neither do I, boss,” Clint said, “but we’re going in together.”

That got him a smile. “God help whoever gets in our way.”

Calling the club a dive was actually pretty generous, but Clint had seen worse. It was clean, open, and held only a faint whiff of desperation. The bouncer who admitted them was big, bored, and possibly a little high. He disappeared into a back room and emerged with a short, balding man in a garish silk shirt. The man gave them a broad, yellowed grin and pumped Phil’s fist with two hands.

“Mr. Maxwell! Bob Bentley. We spoke on the phone.” He turned to Clint with open arms and clapped him on both shoulders. “And this must be the talent! Maxwell, you said he was good.You didn’t say he was gorgeous!”

Clint put on his best ‘aw, shucks’ grin, and said, “Thanks, sir. Hope you like my singing as much as you like my face.”

Bentley gave a big belly laugh and clapped him on the shoulder again. “Kid, I might keep you around just to look at you. I guess I better see what you can do, though.”

There was no stage, just a worn and faded baby grand in the corner. Clint hadn’t played in years, but he’d been given enough prep time for this mission to shake off some of the dust. He ran his fingers down the keys, testing. The piano needed tuning and some of the keys stuck, but it would do. 

“Any requests?” he asked.

“Anything but ‘Piano Man’!” Bentley said, chuckling.

“Something upbeat,” Phil suggested.

Clint remembered a long drive, another mission, and Phil tapping out the rhythm of a Cole Porter tune against the steering wheel. He put his hands in place, breathed in deep, and played.

When the song was finished, he looked up to see Bentley grinning hungrily and Phil watching him with an unreadable expression.

“Perfect! Phenomenal! You’re the shit, kid,” Bentley declared. “We’ll start you at two-fifty a show, plus ten percent of the door. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds pretty good, Mr. Bentley.” It sounded pretty shitty, actually, and Phil seemed to think so, too.

“Three hundred, plus forty percent,” he insisted. “And he drinks for free.”

To Clint, Bentley said, “Call me Bob.” To Phil, “Thirty percent, and I reserve the right to cut him off.”

Phil held out a hand. “Done.”

Bentley shook with him, grinning broadly. “Terrific! I’ll get the papers!” He gave Clint a solid, one-armed hug. “Kid, this place might not make you a winner, but you’ve made this old loser pretty damn happy.”

He trundled off to the back room, and Clint hoped he wasn’t involved in this weapons dealing business, because he kind of liked Bentley. 

***

“You _liked_ him?”

Clint looked up at Phil, puzzled. “Well, yeah. Wouldn’t have trusted him further than I could throw him, but he was an okay guy.”

“He was a creep,” Phil said. “I was afraid for your honor.”

“My.... What are you talking about?”

“He was....” Phil seemed to remember that they had an audience and looked around at the other Avengers. He set his jaw and went on, “Clint, he was coming on to you.”

There were tears in Tony’s eyes from laughing so hard, and Bruce and Thor had been joining in the giggling periodically. Natasha was trying valiantly not to laugh, and Steve just looked concerned.

“He was n-” Clint stopped and gave Phil a sharp look. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

“Of course not.” Phil looked offended. “I thought about it, but no. Moranis killed him.”

“Who’s Moranis?” Steve asked.

“One of the arms dealers. Nasty bastard,” Clint replied with a shudder. “Now him, you did kill.”

“Him, I did kill,” Phil agreed, a touch of satisfaction in his voice.

“What’d he do?” Tony wheezed. “Play ‘Piano Man’?”

Clint’s face darkened. “He tried to kill me.”

That sobered the others quickly, and Phil and Clint kept their eyes on each other.

After a moment, Phil said, “That’s getting a little ahead of the story, though.”

***

It really was a terrible suit, but Clint looked dashing, if uncomfortable. Phil, for his part, desperately missed his beloved black Dolce and tried not to resent the cheap thing he was required to wear.

Clint really did look great, though.

The nightclub manager, an oily shark called Bentley, seemed to think so, too, and took every possible opportunity to put his hands on Clint. Phil put his own hands in his pockets and suffered through it until Clint took a seat at the piano.

He’d been given to understand that Clint had enough talent and training to make the cover believable, but Phil had never actually heard him sing. He realized, now, that this had been an oversight on his part.

Clint’s playing was clumsy, but he pounded out the tune with a certain grace. The imperfections in accompaniment, though, were inconsequential beside the sound of his voice. It was rich, strong, and soulful, filling the room and raising goosebumps on Phils arms. The song was one of Phil’s favorites, but Clint poured so much sadness into it as to make even the upbeat melody unbearable. Phil kept his face blank, like he’d heard this a thousand times, like the sound of it wasn’t breaking his heart, and he waited for the song to end.

***

“God, Coulson, you’re such a sap.”

“You weren’t there,” Phil said. “You didn’t hear him.”

***

They got the contracts signed with a little haggling and some unnecessary pawing from Bentley and agreed to be there at eight sharp the next night.

And then the real work started.

Phase one was infiltration. Phase two was recon, so Phil parked himself at the bar and watched the dinner crowd trickle in. Most of the clientele was middle-aged couples in cheap imitations of cocktail attire, tourists who couldn’t afford the better lounges and regulars who probably remembered when this _was_ one of the better lounges. There were a few patrons who looked just slightly out of place, men wearing good suits and serious expressions. Phil took note of each of them and sipped blithely at his drink.

Clint took the stage at nine, and Phil heard some of the audience members pause and murmur as they caught sight of him. He was still in that awful suit, but he’d gotten rid of the tie and folded up his sleeves to show strong, sculpted forearms. Topped off with his dazzling grin and easy grace, the effect was rakish and captivating. Phil took another drink and pretended not to notice.

Clint opened with some patter and a few jokes, which drew a handful of polite chuckles and some indifferent throat clearing. Phil winced on his behalf and hoped he could read the crowd well enough to know when it was time to stop. As if on cue, Clint put his fingers to the keys and began, predictably, with Sinatra. Phil watched the audience and pretended not to notice the way the muscles shifted in Clint’s arms as he played or the way his chest tightened at the sound of Clint’s voice.

He was scheduled to play for two hours, and the first half of the set passed uneventfully. Patrons came and went and chased every song with sincere, if restrained, applause. Clint, who had come armed with stacks of sheet music, sang every line like his life depended on it, and Phil nursed his neat bourbon and pretended not to notice anything beyond the serious men in good suits.

After an hour of Vegas standards, Clint announced a short break and came strolling over to the bar, hopping up onto the stool beside Phil.

“How’m I doing, boss?” he asked, still wearing that disarming smile.

“Fine,” Phil said. “You sound good, but your presentation needs work.”

The smile faded, and, for a moment, Clint looked disappointed. “Yeah, I know. Guess I’ll just have to turn up the charm, huh?”

Honestly, Phil couldn’t see how anyone in the room could _not_ be charmed by Clint, or at least spend the whole evening staring, but he supposed there was no accounting for taste. He nodded and sipped at his drink.

Clint swivelled around and leaned back so that he was facing the room, his arms resting on the bar, close enough that his skin brushed against the back of Phil’s hand. “So, uh, any new prospects?” he asked.

“Maybe two or three,” Phil replied. “You’ll have to take a look and tell me what you think.”

Clint nodded, and Phil could see his blue eyes tracking lazily across the room the way they did when he was scoping the horizon for a target. After a moment, he swung back around and grabbed a napkin. To anyone else, it would look like he was writing down a time, but Phil read it as table numbers, indicating places occupied by two of the men Phil had noted.

Phil shrugged, meaning ‘yes’. “It’s worth looking into, anyway,” he said, and Clint grinned.


	8. Ororoverse bits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just two little pieces of unfinished fics in coffeesuperhero's Ororoverse, which you should read, if you haven't already.
> 
> The file names for these are "Ororo's reading list" and "this is all Desi's fault", respectively.

When Ororo's presence in their lives was new and newly permanent, Phil anticipated a lot of arguments.

Where should she go to school? What kind of clothes were acceptable? When should she learn to drive? How young was too young for her own phone? How long before she learned to use a gun? _Should_ she learn to use a gun? What about dating? Powers? Diet? Friends? Parties?

The idea of even considering most of those conflicts made Phil want to wrap his arms around her so tightly that she stayed exactly that size, exactly that age, exactly that perfect, forever.

One argument that never would have occurred to him in a thousand years was what books she should read.

“No, absolutely not,” he insisted. “Those books are not appropriate for a twelve-year-old.”

“Why not? And what happened to _encouraging independent thought_?” Clint replied. “I thought that was something we were going for.”

“I’d prefer that her independent thought not involve graphic violence and teenagers killing each other.”

“It’s not that bad,” Clint protested, and Phil gave him a look. “I mean it’s bad, but it’s not _that_ bad. I was reading stuff like this when I was her age. Hell, I saw worse when I wasn’t a lot older.” Phil shook his head, and went back to folding laundry. Clint frowned. “Look, she just wants to read it because it has an archer.”

“Of course, so she can grow up to be just like her father.”

Clint went absolutely still, his face blank and hard, and Phil immediately regretted every single syllable.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.”

“Clint....”

“It’s fine.” Clint gave him a smile that wasn’t a smile, and it cut at the inside of Phil’s throat. “You’re right. I’ll get her some historical fiction, or whatever. Something about, I don’t know, the Great Depression, World War Two. Steve’s a good role model. That’ll be better.”

Phil rubbed a hand over his face and said quietly, “So are you.”

“No. No, you’re right.” Clint paused, fingers twitching, then went to the door and started pulling on his boots. “Gonna go to the range. Won’t be too late.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Phil called after him, but the door was already closing.

Phil prided himself on a certain degree of self-possession, the ability to choose his words carefully to achieve precisely the right effect. It figured that the rare occasions when he did put his foot in his mouth, he did so with extraordinary abandon and an unfailing tendency to pierce Clint’s very worst nerves.

He would have to get creative with this apology.

 

*****

 

It was in those days of heroes that the wretched thanes of the beast called MODOK descended into the depths of the great cities of Midgard to wreak their havoc upon innocent lives. Ever battle-ready, the mighty Avengers took up their great arms and prepared to end this injustice to their world.

The tales of these unmatched heroes are many, and to recount their names and deeds would but add another refrain to the endless ballad of their courage. All who hear the word shall know that the stars themselves did shake to see the warriors march.

Alas, I, Thor Odinson, Prince of Thunder, did not go with my hero-brothers unto the fray, for the villains did keep their treachery beneath the ground, where the power of thunder might be of little aid. Though such skulking might be called cowardice, the wretched thanes were yet creatures of great danger, for they possessed knowledge both of terrible science and of terrible secrets.

The most precious of all things kept secret by the mighty heroes was the name of fair Ororo, the Storm-Bringer, true Child of Asgard, foundling daughter of Philip Loki’s Bane, the brave son of Coul, and of valiant Clinton, the Hawk-eyed Archer. Though she was herself mighty and bound to be one day hailed in songs of her own, the wise fathers did fear for their beloved child, and rightly so, for fierce Ororo was but young and did not yet wield the full force of her great power.

“There will come a day when all Midgard knows of Ororo Storm-Bringer and shall spin countless tales of her kind heart and great deeds,” said Philip Fire-Wielder, who walked the nine realms for the sake of his love. “And yet that day is not yet nigh. ‘Til she rises in her own right, our precious daughter must be guarded from those that would do her harm.”

In this, brave Philip’s mind was of accord with that of Clinton Far-Sighted, whose aim and heart are ever true, and the fair archer did call upon Thor Odinson, saying, “Thunderer, who I name brother, noble Thor, who has fought and bled at my side on the field of glorious battle, who has defended me from foes without number, my friend, I ask of you this boon: that you would take under your guard she who is dearest to my heart while we her soldier fathers are away at war. Shelter her, oh Prince of Asgard, and swear that all the might of Mjolnir will be her defense. This I ask of you, for I would entrust her life to no lesser oath.”

It is no secret thing that the fierce fathers’ love for fair Ororo is near matched by that of Odin’s son, for I, the Prince of Thunder, do hold the child dear as though she were my own, and so it was with great honor that mighty Thor did vow to do as the Hawk-eyed archer asked.

“You have my word, my bright-eyed battle brother, that Ororo Storm-heart shall be safe as any child of the royal blood of Asgard, that the strength of all great Odin’s armies shall stand between your beloved daughter and any foe foolish enough to visit danger upon her. So do I swear, oh gentle Clinton, that child who is all your heart shall be closely guarded as the treasure that she is ‘til all the Realm Eternal does crumble into dust.”

Thus spoke I, and would have sworn more fully had not dauntless Clint raised his strong hands and bid my swearing cease. “Enough, noble Thor. My heart is eased.”

And yet undying Philip, who stands before gods and does not fear, was troubled still. “ I do not nor ever shall doubt the honor of your word, mighty son of Odin, nor the love you bear my sweet daughter. Faith have I that you shall defend her to your last breath, as I would. Even so, she is yet a child, and the Realm Eternal is a great distance for one so small. She has hardly spent a night beyond the safety of her sleeping chamber since our home and hearts became hers. How shall her temper be, even under the Thunderer’s watchful eye? How shall she rest when all she knows is across the stars? And yet more than this does vex me, for I know not how storms are weathered in the land of the Aesir, and so how ought she be garbed? For sun or snow or some air unknown? In what pursuits shall she pass her time? Will she require finery or finest arms? Perhaps the tomes of her most beloved tales should accompany her, else in idleness she begins to fear. And woe it is that I must ask, but if fate decrees that we should not return for her....”

“Peace, my love!” said fair Clinton, whose aim and heart are ever true. “You fret overmuch. Be still.”


End file.
